


The Serpent's Tail (Radioactive Midnight Remix)

by ShinjiShazaki



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Ouroboros Mix 2013, Remix, curses and demons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2013-03-14
Packaged: 2017-12-05 07:30:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/720438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinjiShazaki/pseuds/ShinjiShazaki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Someone told me once, before all of this started, that if you didn't dream it meant you were bonkers.  Or maybe I heard one time that dreams kept your soul steady and therefore kept you sane.</p><p>Nowadays, there's an awful sort of sickness in our city.  One that poisons your soul, and steals your dreams and sanity away from you.  It goes by the name of “Lord English's curse,” though I don't know why.</p><p>I don't know if it's in other places or if it's just this city.  But what I do know is it means we go in for weekly dream evaluations, like a regular person with a therapist, only it's my job on the line with my brain constantly being threatened.</p><p>I'm a detective, you see.</p><p>We're not allowed to be crazy."</p><p>-entry from Jane Crocker's private journal</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. there's a lot that's on my mind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dashery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashery/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Serpent's Tail](https://archiveofourown.org/works/612436) by [dashery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashery/pseuds/dashery). 



> A remix of The Serpent's Tail.

Someone told me once, before all of this started, that if you didn't dream it meant you were bonkers. Or maybe I heard one time that dreams kept your soul steady and therefore kept you sane.

Nowadays, there's an awful sort of sickness in our city. One that poisons your soul, and steals your dreams and sanity away from you. It goes by the name of “Lord English's curse,” though I don't know why.

I don't know if it's in other places or if it's just this city. But what I do know is it means we go in for weekly dream evaluations, like a regular person with a therapist, only it's my job on the line with my brain constantly being threatened.

I'm a detective, you see.

We're not allowed to be crazy.

 

DAY ONE: THREE THIRTY AM. DAYS SINCE LAST DREAM: ZERO

 

The phone was ringing, and she was coming out of a dream. Jane Crocker floundered in her sheets, going first for the notebook beside the phone on her nightstand. She scribbled with some haste, but not much. She had the landline installed with no answering machine specifically so it could ring while she documented her dreams. She was woken by the phone more often than her alarm clock; if they were going to wake her up, they could damn well wait.

“Crocker,” she answered, mumbles on her tongue and gravel in her throat.

_“Janey.”_

She relaxed slightly before stiffening with irritation. It had been a nice dream for once. “Miss Lalonde, what on earth are you doing calling me at—” She grabbed her clock and squinted. “—Three-thirty in the morning? If it’s to tell me another story about Rose you just remembered—”

_“There was a code,”_ Roxy said. _“A one eighty-seven.”_

She sat up straighter, shifting to get close enough to the edge of the bed to swing her legs off. “The victim?”

_“Bad.”_

“Okay, bad how?”

_“Mutilated. Cut into pieces with an exceptional sharp blade.”_

She paused in putting on her glasses. “You're used to that, Ro-lal. You got me through _my_ first bad one eighty-seven. What's wrong?”

_“The code happened while you were asleep. Harley and Davey-boy brought it in. You could—”_ The line broke up in the static of Roxy sniffing hard; Jane could hear the tears starting to come into her voice. _“—You could tell Dave already had an idea. He said...he said he thinks it's Dirk.”_

Her blood ran cold. “No. That's not possible.”

_“He's been skipping his evals,”_ said Roxy, weak defeat in her words. _“I made Harley pull his records.”_

Heat then suffused her. “That's out of your jurisdiction, Lalonde. You'll get written up for a move like that.”

_“Jane Crocker, I am telling you that I'm scared Dirk has the curse because the evidence points to someone using a crazy good sword and he's the only one I know who has one, so would you shove your books where the sun doesn't shine for once?”_

She went quiet. “Sorry.”

_“Get down here and examine the body with me. I want a second opinion.”_

“The best forensic investigator in the city's history wants a _second opinion_? No, Roxy, I'll go with your gut on this one.”

_“‘Go with it’? What—no! Janey, don't you dare! Call for backup and wait!”_

“I'm just going to go talk with him. Maybe he's still Dirk enough to know me and come quietly.”

_“You know he won't if he's got the curse! Jane, don't go to his place! Please don't—”_

She hung up. For a time, she sat there, just thinking.

At age twenty-seven, Dirk Strider was the youngest person in the precinct to be called an “old hand” by the Mayor, such an impression of solidity he made. He had the best instincts on the force, and he had the best record of the homicide department. He was a great lucid dreamer, or so he claimed. Jane believed it, as he had been teaching her how to do it. As his partner of three years, she had been certain he would never fall prey to the curse.

Now, as she dressed and put on her dirty white fedora, she was uncertain enough to get her gun.

—————

It took three rings on the doorbell before Jane gave up on courtesy and simply tried the knob. It turned easily, and no lock stopped her from opening the door. The entryway to the townhouse was dark save the spillover of the streetlamp behind her. She looked down. Blood speckled the linoleum and the boots she recognized as Dirk's favorites. The spatter went on up the hallway and through the open double-doors that led to the living room.

She had just been here. Her dream had been of her birthday party last year. All the windows had been thrown open in the middle of the day, and it had been a lovely April afternoon.

There was a single flickering light in the room as she slowly approached the doorway. She peeked around the frame, hand on her gun.

“Hey, Jane.”

She did not jump. She stepped out into the light, keeping her hand where it was. Dirk sat on his couch, covered in blood, with a katana in his lap. Above him on the wall was the empty plaque that had held the sword. He had forbidden anyone from touching it, stating it was extremely sharp.

“How'd you know it was me?” she asked.

Dirk touched his own pointed sunglasses, on despite the dark. “You forgot to take off your glasses again. The glare's a dead giveaway.”

“Is that why you lit the candle? To catch me out?”

“Excellent deduction. I knew you'd forget. You always do unless I remind you.” He sat forward, leaning close to the candle. “Think of this as a last lesson, Miss Crocker.”

“Dirk, _wait_ —”

And he blew out the candle.

She jumped backward as she heard Dirk kick aside the coffee table. Her back instantly hit a wall. The spillover light revealed Dirk's bloody face as he dashed at her, and gave her enough time to let her knees buckle and drop to the floor. His swing went high, where her neck had been, and sliced a line into the wall.

Jane drew her gun and aimed at his chin. “Dirk, don't make me do this!”

He spun his sword about and stabbed at her gut.

She did not fire, instead rolling aside. With a hard kick to his closest knee, she scrambled back to her feet as he crumpled.

“Please don't do this!” Jane said. “We can try to fix this! Just—we'll go to the chief and we'll try the sleep studies and—”

Up on his uninjured knee, he swung at her neck again. She swayed to avoid it, stepped back, and brought her gun up to aim at his head.

“You think there's a ‘going back’ from this?” Dirk asked. “Don't you listen to the recordings of people with what I've got?”

She swallowed, but found it difficult to do. “You've got the curse?”

He chuckled without smiling. “You call it a curse. I've got what my friends have.”

She shuddered, lowering her gun slightly. “Di-stri, you have a problem and you need to let me hel—”

He threw his sword, the blade piercing clean through her left shoulder. Screaming, she dropped to the floor. Dirk rose to his feet, limped to her, and wrenched the sword out of her. He held the sword's tip to her nose.

“It's great not having dreams anymore,” he said, smiling slowly. “Let me show you.”

“Hold it!”

Jane looked past Dirk's legs and found Roxy standing in the door, still in her work lab coat, her favorite rifle aimed at Dirk with steady hands,

“Roxy, _no_! Get out of here!”

“Dirk, drop your weapon and step away from Jane!”

“Hey, Roxy,” said Dirk, smiling even more as he turned around. “Nice cop impression. But you're just in time. I can show you how nice it is not having dreams.”

“Dirk, don't do it!” Jane shouted, struggling to sit up despite the pain in her shoulder. “Think of Rose! Don't take her mother away!”

He laughed. “I'll send little Rose to see her mother soon.” He lifted his sword high. “I'll send _everyone_ to see her soon!”

Dirk took three steps and swung down his sword.

Jane shot him in the back of the head.

 

DAY THREE: ONE FORTY-FIVE PM. DAYS SINCE LAST DREAM: ZERO.

 

“You're lucky you didn't lose that arm, you know.”

Sitting up in her hospital bed, Jane chuckled. “I was lucky that _you_ were there. You're the one who gave me emergency care before the ambulance arrived.”

Roxy, settled in one of the bedside chairs, grinned. She curled her hands, beckoning more praise.

Jane rolled her eyes, but smiled nonetheless. “Yes, Miss Roxy Lalonde saved my arm and my life two nights ago, all thanks go to her.”

With a nod, Roxy held up her hand to stem the tide of Jane's words. They both giggled, but went silent quickly. They looked away from one another. Roxy twiddled her thumbs; Jane looked out the window.

“How're you doing?” Roxy asked, so softly Jane might not have heard had she not been waiting for the question.

“As well as I can be,” she replied. After a few quiet seconds, she asked, “Did his evaluations say anything before he started skipping them?”

“That he was even more withdrawn than usual, but that he would actually laugh at the jokes John made.”

“Dirk doesn't—didn't laugh.”

“Yeah,” Roxy murmured. “He didn't.”

They were silent again until Jane cleared her throat. “I thought you said I was getting visitors today?”

“Oh, yeah!” She pulled a phone from the pocket of her long coat and began to type up a text, thumbs a blur. With a triumphant grin a few seconds later, she hit the “send” button and sat back in her chair. “I just told Callie to come up with Rosie.”

Jane lifted a brow. “The elusive girlfriend is my visitor?”

“The elusive _professor_ girlfriend,” Roxy corrected her. “Keep your fact straight, Janey. You're the detective here.”

“Right, sorry. You know, you've mentioned her job, but never really what she teaches.”

Roxy smiled. “I'll let her tell you. She loves to tell people what she does.”

“When will they,” Jane began, but she was cut off by a knock on the open door. They both looked to it. Rose Lalonde, four years old, tiny, and fair of hair and skin, stood in the doorway clutching the knees of a very thin woman with dark skin, a deep green suit, and no hair to speak of. In one of her hands was a soft felt hat; the other rested on Rose's hair.

“Pardon the interruption,” the woman said, voice lilting with an old East Prospitan accent. “But we're here, love.”

“Mommy!” Rose cried, hurrying over to climb into Roxy's lap. She clutched her mother tightly and said in her neck, “I missed you.”

“Oh, baby,” Roxy crooned, sitting back to hold her close. “I know, I'm sorry I was gone the last couple of days.”

“‘Gone’?” Jane asked. “You don't mean you were _here_ the whole time?”

“I was for a few reasons,” she replied. She pulled Rose away from her in order to rub their noses together. Rose giggled and escaped her mother's weak hold to cling to her again.

“She behaved herself very well,” said the woman, walking toward them. She stroked Rose's hair with a hand of which Jane could see all the bones. “Not a single tantrum, even when she had a nightmare.”

Roxy was horror struck. “My baby girl had a nightmare and I wasn't _there_?” She clutched Rose tightly in turn, pressing kisses to her hair where the woman's hand wasn't. “Sweetie, I'm so, so sorry.“

“‘M not mad, mommy,” said Rose. “Calliope was there.”

“I owe you big time,” Roxy said, reaching out to lay her hand on the woman's hip. “D’you take checks?”

“If ‘checks’ is code for ‘kisses,’ then yes.”

Jane snickered. “You two are dorks.”

“Ah,” said the woman, looking at Jane with remarkably bright green eyes. “The elusive best friend.”

Jane shot a look at Roxy, who only grinned. Shifting to sit up a little straighter, she offered her good hand. “Jane Crocker. Nice to meet you, Miss Calliope...”

She took Jane's hand and shook gently. “Just Calliope.”

“That's different,” Jane said as her hand was released. “Did you not like your last name?”

“Something to that effect,” Calliope said, not looking at Jane.

“How come you're here in the hospital?” asked Rose, pointing.

“I got hurt, sweetie, see?” Jane replied, gesturing to her sling-bound arm. “Being a detective is dangerous.”

“Wasn't Dirk there to help you?” The adults went quiet and did not meet Rose's eyes. She tugged impatiently at her mother's long purple scarf. “Mommy, where's Dirk?”

Roxy hesitated. “Dirk's...”

Calliope took hold of the chair's arm and lowered herself to one knee, more on eye-level with Rose. “Do you know what it means to never wake up again, dove?”

Rose thought, and fidgeted with an answer she did not like. “It means you're dead.” She looked at Roxy. “Mommy...is Dirk dead?”

“He...” She sighed faintly. “He is, sweetie. I'm sorry.”

Her eyes began to shine with tears. “But—how come?” Roxy could not help it; her eyes flicked to Jane. Rose followed her gaze and asked Jane, “Why's Dirk dead?”

“Sweetie, I'm sorry,” she answered. “Dirk's gone.”

“But _why_?”

“He had to find new dreams,” Calliope said, taking one of Rose's small hands in both of hers. “That's what you do when you die.”

“He's—” She sniffled. “—He's still doing things?”

“Of course. There's life after death, you know.” She smiled, touching the tip of Rose's small nose. “Dirk is going to find his new dreams in the company of other princes, as we all are princes and princesses deep down in our souls. He'll be happy.”

“Promise?” Rose asked.

“As long as he looks for happiness, and he'll look if we keep remembering the good times we had with him. So,” Calliope said, tapping Rose's nose again, “think nothing but good thoughts for him, dove. He'll be grateful.”

By then, Rose was crying as silently as a four-year-old could, little hiccups and sniffs giving her away. Still, she nodded to Calliope before settling more fully in Roxy's lap, burying her face in her chest and beginning to cry in earnest. Roxy rocked back and forth, patting Rose's back in a steady rhythm but never shushing her.

“I'm gonna go outside with her for a lil’ bit,” said Roxy, gathering Rose up in her arms and getting to her feet. “You two chat.” She was soon out the door, Rose's whimpering trailing back up the hall as they left.

“Thanks,” Jane murmured after silence had reigned for a time.

“Not at all,” Calliope replied. Gingerly she got off her knee and heavily she sat in the vacated chair. Settling, she chuckled. “Those two run so hot it's remarkable to sit in chairs after them. Have you noticed?”

Jane smiled despite still hearing Rose asking “why” on repeat in her mind. “It's why I never take her seat when she leaves.” She relaxed carefully, putting pressure on her shoulder in fits and spurts. “So...Roxy’s told me you're a professor.”

“That I am.” She displayed her hat. “You don't mind, do you? It's just that I'm getting cold and...”

Jane waved away further excuses and nodded. “Go ahead. No one should be uncomfortable because of me.”

Calliope turned the hat over and put it on, sitting back in the still-warm chair. “Roxy's told me very little about you, I'll have you know.”

“The annoyed feeling is mutual,” Jane said with a little smirk. “It's like firing in the dark—” She went completely silent.

After a moment, Calliope asked, “Would you like to know what I teach?”

Jane nodded while staring at her knees.

“Religion and philosophy,” said Calliope. “Though most specifically that of Skaia's ancient times.”

“Back when everything was first broken up into Prospit and Derse?”

She smiled. “Do I sense a student who passed through a religion course during college?”

“I needed a credit and it was easy enough.”

“Oh, how I wish you had been in my class. I might've made you change your school plans.”

Jane smiled back at her, no force in the expression. “I doubt it. I've been aiming to be a gumshoe most of my life.”

“A noble profession, to be sure,” said Calliope. “My apologies for the line of duty injury.”

“I've had,” Jane began, but paused. “I've had other injuries.”

“I must admit I'm no stranger to hospitals myself,” she said.

“Really?”

“Cancer.”

“Oh—oh my god. I'm so sorry.”

Calliope sighed and smiled. “It's all right. It's been in remission for some time now.”

“But—”

“My hair and my weight?”

“Yeah,” Jane admitted.

“I rather like it like this,” she said, patting her head. “And it's always been difficult to put on weight. I still get nauseous easily.”

“Do you like cake?”

“I do, but neither I nor Roxy are skilled bakers.”

She grinned. “I can bake you a cake once I'm on the mend. You, Roxy, and Rose.”

“That would be delightful!” Calliope said, clapping her hands together.

Jane laughed. “I can see why Roxy likes you. Has anyone told you you're adorable?”

“Roxy is very fond of it.”

“Can I ask how you two met?”

“In a highly unromantic fashion,” replied Calliope. “She and Rose volunteer here, reading stories to ill children. I,” she said, blushing slightly, “well, I'm something of an artist, so I come to doodle for the little ones. One day, I was taking requests after they'd all had their chemotherapy, and Rose and Roxy joined us. Roxy struck up a conversation with me, and then she asked me out for coffee and tea. The rest is history.”

“So you've been together...”

“A year.”

“And we haven't met before now.” She huffed moodily. “If I'd known it'd take nearly getting killed to meet you, I would've gotten into a car crash or something.”

“Oh, please don't say things like that. It would be dreadful if they came true.”

“Just kidding, just kidding,” Jane said, patting the air. “I'd never do something so stupid, even for a sweet dame like you.”

“Thank heaven.” She looked to the door. “Goodness, they've been gone a long time. I hope Rose isn't too distraught.”

“You did a bang-up job telling her about death. I'd have been terrible, since...” She shrugged. “You know. So thanks.”

“Of course, but in payment I ask that you tell me how you and my significant other met.”

Jane turned crimson to her ears. She fidgeted with her glasses. “That's a boring story, nothing embarrassing about it, no ma’am.”

“You're a wretched liar. Tell me.”

She heaved a great sigh. “I...threw up on her.”

Calliope sputtered a giggle and put a hand over her mouth. Through her fingers, she asked, “How did that happen?”

“My first ever case in the homicide department was a curse murder. They're always gruesome, and I wasn't prepared. Roxy was on forensics, and when she came to talk to me and Dirk, I...threw up on her.”

By then, Calliope was shuddering with giggles. “I-I'm sorry. I sh-shouldn't be laughing.

“No, go ahead. It’s funny in hindsight.”

“Many things are.”

“Many things are what?”

They looked up to see Roxy in the doorway, Rose clinging loosely to her neck.

“The humor of hindsight, love,” Calliope answered. “Is Rose all right?”

“Conked out,” Roxy said, frowning. “She cried so hard outside.”

“I’m sorry,” Jane said quietly, looking down.

“It’s not your fault,” Calliope murmured.

“It actually is.” She rubbed her thumb in her palm. “I’m the one who killed him.”

“It ain’t your fault, Janey,” Roxy protested. “It’s the curse.”

“I know. I just want an answer as to what it is.” She sighed heavily, pushing her glasses up to rub at her eyes.

“Should we let you rest?” Calliope asked.

“I don’t want to send you away.”

“You’re the one who’s hurt. You can tell us to fuck off.”

“Roxy! Not with your daughter here!”

“What? She’s heard me swear.” She leaned down carefully to kiss Calliope on the cheek. “It’s just words, babe. She knows to not use ‘em around adults.”

“In any case, we can leave you to recover, Miss Jane.”

“Just ‘Jane,’ okay?” she said with a smile.

“All right, it’ll be ‘Jane’ from here on out,” Calliope replied, returned the smile. “And we’ll let you be.”

“We’ll come back, through!” Roxy said. “Soon, okay?”

“Deal,” Jane laughed. She sat back as they departed, not bothering to to take off her glasses.

“Jane?”

She opened her eyes and saw Calliope leaning around the edge of the door. “Yeah?”

“I have something I’d like to talk to you about at the university when you can come.”

Baffled, she said, “Okay. It’ll be about a week.”

“Excellent.” She waved in goodbye, and then was gone.

Jane was too exhausted to dwell, and slipped off to sleep in the warm haze of painkillers.


	2. you asked, "did I believe?"

I knew Dirk the way most people knew him: as a homicide detective. He was my partner for years. I knew he took his coffee with three sugars and a splash of non-dairy creamer. But I think I knew his little brother, Dave, better than I knew Dirk. I don’t know what kind of movies he liked, or what kind of books he read. He didn’t have anything on display in his house but that sword.

I don’t even know why he had it.

It’s silly to say, but it makes me sad that I don’t even know why my partner was in the homicide department instead of somewhere else.

I wish I’d thought to ask.

 

DAY THIRTEEN: TWO TWENTY-SEVEN PM. DAYS SINCE LAST DREAM: TWO.

 

“How’s the arm doing?”

Jane attempted to curl her hand; pain lanced from the wound in her shoulder. “It’s seen better days.”

John Egbert, resident evaluator for the precinct, nodded. “And your dreams?”

“You mean my nightmares?” she asked in return. She pushed up her glasses to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Still coming almost every night. I caught a break the last couple days.”

“But just the last _two_?”

“Just two. The threshold for the curse is still a whole month away, right?”

“Thereabouts.” He let out a breath and put his pen behind his ear. “I don’t want to see you go the batshit bonkers route, Jane.”

She smirked. “Nice clinical language, doc.”

“You know I mean well. And I’m serious, okay? Tell me if it’s more than ten days and we’ll get you in on one of those sleep studies. They work pretty good in getting you to dream.”

“I know, I know. I’m still _able_ to dream through lucid dreaming.” She went quiet a moment. “Like he taught me.”

“Have your dreams been about Dirk?”

“Yeah,” she admitted at length.

“Wanna tell me about ‘em?”

“No, but I will.” She looked away and then looked back. “They’re all about killing him.”

“Did you expect anything anything else?” He flipped back a few pages on his clipboard. “You have a history of nightmares when you’ve killed in the line of duty.”

“I know.”

“They started resolving a lot faster once Dirk taught you how to lucid dream.”

“Yeah.”

“So why—”

“Because he was my partner and I _killed_ him.”

Gently, John said, “It was to save Roxy’s life. And your own. You’d have a case of death right now.”

“I know, but it’s hard killing your partner and then having people tell you to get over it faster.”

“Oh.” He was silent for a heartbeat. “Bet that’s true. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry I snapped.”

“Nah, don’t be. I deserved it. C’mon, you’ve got a right to be upset right now with no one who can tell you you’re wrong.” He smiled. “You should enjoy that. We get stuck having people tell us otherwise pretty much all the rest of the time. Oh,” he said, and he pointed at her shoulder. “And you also get a free pass on being angry ‘cause of that, too.”

She smiled as well. “Okay, fine. I’m mad at you.”

John gave her a double thumbs-up and grinned. “I’ve never been happier to have someone mad at me.”

Her smile faded; she lifted a brow. “That doesn’t help your case.”

“Oh. My bad.”

“Let’s just move on.”

“Deal. What’s your rehab look like?”

“Since it’s my non-dominant hand, we’re looking at two or three months occupational therapy once all the stitches come out. I’m lucky he didn’t sever the nerves.”

“Yeah you are.”

Jane glanced at the clock.

“Okay, what am I keeping you from?”

“Huh?”

“You never look at the clock,” he said with a waggle of his fingers toward it, “unless you have somewhere to be. What’s up?”

“I agreed to meet Roxy’s girlfriend today after this. I don’t want to keep her waiting.”

“Oh, Roxy’s teacher ladyfriend? Hey, do you think you do kinky teacher-student stuff?”

Jane’s jaw dropped.

“I was just really insensitive again, wasn’t I.”

“ _Yes you were_!”

He held up his hands, going pale. “I’m sorry! I’m only a dream evaluator, not a therapist!”

“Yes, but you could have a little more tact than to ask me to speculate on my best friend’s _sex life_!”

“I’m sorry!” he cried. “I won’t ask again!”

“If you were this awful with Dirk, I’m not surprised he stopped coming to see you!” She went quiet immediately, putting her hand to her mouth.

John shook his head when she opened her mouth to apologize. “No, you’re right to be angry. And you’re right about Dirk. I didn’t do my job good enough.”

“It was the curse,” Jane said. “It’s hard to fight the curse.”

“Shoulda fought harder. It’s bad I needed to learn it this way.”

“We both should’ve fought harder. Look, let’s not leave upset. I’m sorry I said you were terrible with Dirk.”

“And I’m sorry I was an insensitive ass.” He held out his hand. “Truce?”

She stood up and moved to take his hand. “Truce.”

“Now go see Roxy’s ladyfriend! You have to tell me how it goes when you come back in next week!”

With a small laugh, she said, “All right.”

—————

Calliope looked up at the knock on her door. Upon seeing Jane, she siled and set down her red pen. As she stood up, she said, “It’s wonderful to see you again, pigeon.”

“You too.” She stepped through the doorway, looking about. Everywhere were books: stacked waist high from the floor; piled haphazardly on Calliope’s desk and a nearby table; and stuffed into bookcases lining the walls. “Are these all philosophy and religion?”

“People have a lot to say. It’s enough to make a living, to be sure.”

“But you didn’t call me here for a lecture on Light and Rain’s relationships to Pyramids and Neon, did you?”

“No, nothing like that. Here, sit.” Jane took the chair; she moved to close the door. Leaning against it, she sighed softly. “I called you here for a confession.”

Jane boggled. “Excuse me?”

“I feel complicit in Dirk’s madness.”

She boggled further. “ _Excuse me_? No, no one can cause the curse.”

“I still feel I led to it. Hear me out, please.”

“But when did you two ever _meet_?”

“Do you recall the second-most recent curse murder? The victim?”

Jane did not have to think twice. “The Megido girl. What about her?”

“Her younger sister, Aradia, is in one of my classes. Dirk came to see me on his own for questioning.”

“While he sent me to question the Nitram brothers. Okay. So…what? I’m lost.”

Calliope picked up a neatly handwritten manuscript from the table, ferrying it to Jane “This caught his eye as we were talking.”

Jane took it and looked at the cover page. It was the only thing that was typed, and it bore Calliope’s name and the title, which she read aloud. “‘The Curse of Lord English’? You’re writing a book on it?”

“Not on the curse as a medical phenomenon. I fear there is something else at play with Lord English’s curse.”

“Like what?”

Calliope sat on the table and crossed her legs at the knees. “I believe this is a real curse from a real demon.”

Jane stared. She thought briefly of laughing, but when her lips trembled into a smile, Calliope frowned darkly.

“What do you remember from your religion course in college?” she demanded.

“Um,” said Jane nervously, “that…there are eight gods. Four ancient and four newer?”

“Precisely, and you named one of each when you mentioned Light and Rain and Pyramids and Neon. Science tells us there is always an equal and opposite reaction, correct?”

“Right.”

“The equal and opposite reaction to gods are demons. Lord English is the opposing force to the eight gods.”

“So why is it that we call the madness ‘Lord English’s curse’?”

“Because,” Calliope said in a low voice, “the demon is said to be able to steal dreams and shatter souls with a scream.”

Jane felt a chill run the length of her spine. After a moment of thought, she asked, “Wait, ‘ _is_ ’? Aren’t all the gods and demons dead?”

Calliope huffed a sigh. “So the legends say, but I believe differently. I urge you to read my book. If nothing else,” she added, “it may tell you why I worry I had a hand in Dirk’s descent.”

She chuckled, not a little disbelievingly. “If just wanted someone to read your book—” She stopped at the grim, resentful look on Calliope’s face.

“You’re right. No one will read my book. No one wants a book with a crackpot theory, and don’t think people _haven’t_ called it that. All I want to do is share insight as to what your partner read before he went mad.”

Jane went very quiet and looked down at her lap. Eventually, she mumbled, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” She took a deep breath through her nose and let it out slowly. “Only two people have read it without dismissing it outright, and they were Roxy and Dirk. Is it wrong of me to want people to read something I’ve worked hard on?”

“No. I really am sorry.”

Calliope took another deep breath. “It’s fine. I’m just peevish.” She massaged her temples. “Rose kept both me and Roxy awake last night with nightmares.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Roxy said Rosie’s been having problems.”

“Dirk was like an uncle to her. And he spoke so fondly of you when we chatted that I’m sure your dreams haven’t been too pleasant, either.”

“I’d rather not talk about it.” She took the bound pages carefully. “Is it okay if I take this home to read it?”

“Of course.” She hesitated, but said, “My apologies for losing my temper.”

“And I’m sorry for being an ass.”

Calliope smiled, which brought a smile to Jane’s face in turn. “Read it in between your cases and your therapy and come back when you have an opinion. I’m interested to see what you think.”

“Deal,” said Jane.

—————

 

DAY FOURTEEN: NOON. DAYS SINCE LAST DREAM: ZERO.

 

“The fuck are you reading?”

“A book, Dave. I’m sure you’ve heard of them.”

“Ha ha.” He slipped the book out from beneath her fingers and closed it.

“Hey!”

“You’ve still got case work to do on the Megido curse murder. Vantas said I have to be your helper bitch while you’re all sorts of fucked up, so focus, all right?”

She sighed and pushed the book to one side. “Fine.”

“C’mon,” Dave deadpanned, “what could be more fun than going through a dead man’s notes days after you killed him?”

She stared at him.

“Too soon?”

“Yeah.”

He shrugged. “My bad.”

“Dave, are _you_ all right? Jade says you’re not eating.”

He shrugged again. “I’m just not eating donuts anymore. Gotta watch my girlish figure.”

“Dave…”

“I’m _eating_ , all right? I’m not anorexic or some shit.”

“I can tell you’ve lost weight.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but deflated. “I’m not hungry. All I can think about is my bro didn’t have enough head left for an open casket. It puts you off your food, y’know?”

She thought of her significantly looser clothing and said, “Yeah, I do. Dave, listen, I—”

“Put down a madman. That’s all there is to it.”

But—”

He banged his fist on the table, making her jump. “He nearly killed you and Roxy after choppin’ up that Ampora dude,” he said in a forced quiet voice. “He was gone. It’ll help me get over it a lot more if we just leave it like that.” He pulled a file folder from the table and opened it. “So let’s just get to work for a little while, okay?”

“Okay,” she agreed, and she pulled over a file of her own. “So what do we have on the Megido girl?”

“Damara, age twenty-seven. Saying she was a call girl would be the polite way of putting it. Sounds like she was trying to put her sister through college with how hard she whored.”

“Aradia is working her own way through,” said Jane. “They were estranged.”

“Dirk questioned her, right?”

“Right. She was upset, but distantly.”

“Suspect?”

Jane shook her head. “We’ve determined she still dreams regularly. They were estranged, but not at odds. No, the prime suspects are the clowns on the run.”

Dave scowled. “The Makara brothers.”

“Exactly. And I still don’t think you should be on the case if Gamzee is involved.”

“He fucked with my girl. You don’t _blind_ a cop’s girlfriend and get the fuck away with it.”

“That was a curse assault by Vriska Serket and you know it.”

He jabbed a finger at her. “Who got her the acid? Gamzee.”

She held up her hand in defeat. “Either way, he and Kurloz are linked to a number of curse murders. We’re going to catch them.”

“We fuckin’ better.”

Letting her hand drop to her lap atop the file, she frowned. “Go for a walk, Strider.”

He bristled. “Excuse me?”

“I’m still your superior. You’re not on your game. Go take a walk. Maybe around the block.”

Dave gaped at her, but eventually stood up, rubbing his face. “A walk, yeah. Cool my head.”

“Attaboy.” He turned and lifted a hand in parting; she returned the gesture. He left the high-walled cubicle, and for a time all she heard were footsteps, papers rustling, and people chattering. She pored over the files, examining the photos of Gamzee and Kurloz Makara. More often than not, their faces were partially obscured by their wild hair and hoodies. In one photo they were in the middle of a convenience store robbery. Gamzee, the slightly smaller of the two, had his arms full of Faygo; Kurloz was pointing a gun at the cashier.

“You two idiots used to be all about petty crime,” she muttered. “Why the turn to ritualistic murder?”

But she knew, and her eyes turned to the manuscript. Glancing up, she found no one watching her, and so she pulled it in front of her to resume reading. She went back to the center of the page where the second chapter, “Of Lordly Demons,” began.

_If we are all dreaming princes and princesses, one could reason that our natural opposite is a differing lord. This is likely where the title “Lord” English comes from. Should one ask where “English” comes from, however, it becomes a little more difficult. Research into old legends of heroes reveals that there was once a prince who wielded hope itself as a weapon in an effort to defeat the universe’s greatest demon—but who also failed and had his name stolen as punishment. This name, of course, was English._

_Lord English is anathema to all living beings, devoted to destruction both physical and metaphysical. The entire purpose of his existence is domination over creation, to the end of ruination. His opponents are the eight gods, as well as his sister._

“Sister?” murmured Jane.

_Lord English’s sister is much less well known. This text may be the only one that officially postulates her existence. However, stories do tell of a single entity that attempts to match him, creation for destruction. Many stories do not assign a gender to this entity, but other do give her a female identity, perhaps in an attempt to completely oppose him. For my purposes, I will assume the creative identity is, in fact, his sister, and treat her with the same dignity as the eight gods._

“No wonder you got called a crackpot, Callie,” Jane said, smiling a little. “Who wants to hear about Lord English’s good-hearted sister?” She thought briefly. “Okay, _I_ do, but I don’t know about other people.”

“I come back up here with news on the case and you’re reading that thing again?”

She jumped. Dave stood in the door, a piece of paper in his hand and his brow up over his sunglasses.

“And you’re talking to it, too,” he said.

She blushed. “You heard that?”

“I did, Miss Funnypants. But that doesn’t matter. We’ve got a lead on the Makaras.”

Jane sat up straight. “Are you serious?”

Dave smirked. “Get your coat.”

—————

It was the sort of rainy evening one would never go to a carnival on, but that was where Dave drove them. It was abandoned, more a dead theme park, but everyone called it the Dark Carnival nonetheless. It was the regular home of clown cultists, walking somewhere between cursed and not, who worshiped a pair of mirthful messiahs instead of the eight gods. Jane could could not believe the Makara brothers would actually dare to stay there when there was a city-wide manhunt going on for them.

She could believe one thing even less, however, as Dave casually parked in the barren parking lot.

“You said you told everyone else about the lead,” she said, not unbuckling her seatbelt. “Where is everyone else, Dave?”

“Coming,” he said simply.

“ _When_?”

“In a few. C’mon, we gotta smoke ‘em out.”

“Wha— _we_? Dave, I’m not even technically supposed to be out in the field!”

“Why’d you jump to come out here?” Without waiting for an answer, he popped open his door and got out.

She struggled with her seatbelt and got out as well. At his back she said, “To give you support, you nit! We shouldn’t be doing this alone!”

“It’s what he would’ve done.”

“ _You are not your brother_!” Jane shouted. “And you shouldn’t try to be!”

“Then I guess I gotta be Dave,” he replied. “And do you know what Daves do?” He jabbed his thumb toward the carnival’s entrance. “They go catch the fuckers that helped blind their girlfriends.” He turned half aside. “Now are you going to help me or not?”

She sputtered protesting noise, but gave in at the unrelenting nature of his raised brow. Sighing hard, she said, “I’m not taking the fall for this.”

“Nah, that’s totally me. C’mon. Word has it that they’re staying in the big top. Get the flashlights out of the glove compartment.”

Once she had, they started off. In the deepening night, the pathways of the Dark Carnival were nothing short of unnerving, and they stuck close to each other’s sides. They turned down the midway, aiming ever toward the three-ring tents. The rain poured off the slanted roofs of the empty game stands in unbroken streams, obscuring where once had hung cheap stuffed toys beyond the backs of game masters.

“I hate this place,” said Jane.

“Hate the clowns from way back when?” Dave asked.

“No, unlike you, I don’t hate all clowns. It just reminds me of my dad and how much I miss him.”

Dave nodded. “I just hate this place ‘cause of clowns.”

“I know, dear, I know.” She jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow when she heard him take a breath. “Please don’t rant right now. We need to stayed focused.”

“Right. Focused.” He adjusted the lapels of his long, worn-out brown coat. “Focused.”

“We’ll get them,” she murmured.

“Yeah, we will.”

They were silent after that until they reached the entrance to the tents. It was all stiff canvas, the rain hitting it with loud _plat_ s. Within was dark—save the light of a flashlight bobbing at the middle of the main ring. They shut off their own lights immediately.

“You stay here,” Dave said, just loud enough to be heard over the rain noise. “Shoot to disable anyone who tries to make a break for it.”

“I don’t like this,” replied Jane. “Why am I hanging back?”

“You’ve got one good arm. You’re not supposed to be out in the field, remember?”

“And whose problem is that?”

“Look, I’m trying to—”

She grabbed his slim red tie and yanked on it hard. “You’re trying to go up against two _known_ cursed individuals who like _ripping off people’s heads_. Why are you so gung-ho about doing this alone?”

“To be _better_ than him, all right? Big fuckin’ surprise.”

She stared at him. “Are you serious?”

He undid his tie suddenly, stepping backward to leave her holding it in shock. “Yeah, I am.”

And he strode away alone into the tent.

Jane could not call after him. She could not run after him. All she could do, if she did not want to prematurely announce him, was stand impotently in the rain. In that moment, she hated Dave Strider. She settled in to wait.

It wasn’t long at all before she heard a gunshot.

Seconds later, she heard Dave shout, “He’s running, Crocker!”

She blinked, and there was an enormously tall man in front of her. Three scars across the diagonal width of his face told her he was the younger of the duo, Gamzee. It also told her she was in the presence of a man who bottled blood and tried to sell it as magic potions. Her legs locked and would not move.

Gamzee smiled at her and reached for her throat.

“ _Jane_!”

Dave slammed into Gamzee from the side, bearing them both to the ground. As Jane watched, Dave laid into Gamzee with silent fury. He beat Gamzee round the head until he did not fight back, and when that happened he got to his feet and began to smash his leg into Gamzee’s chest and gut.

“Dave, _stop_!” Jane screamed. “You’ll kill him!”

“He fuckin’ deserves it!” Dave yelled in return. He moved to Gamzee’s head and pulled back his leg.

Jane drew her pistol. “Don’t you dare make me do this.”

Dave halted. He put down his leg. “You serious?”

“Completely. Step away from him.”

Putting up his hands, he did as he was told.

She holstered her gun and crouched down to check Gamzee’s pulse. It was steady and strong, and she snapped her fingers close to his ear. When there was no reaction, she sighed. “He’s out. If we’re lucky.”

“I’ve got good luck. I caught a pair of clowns, didn’t I?”

“Dave, now is not the time for jokes, I can hear sirens. What are we going to tell everyone?”

“That—what?”

“You heard me. What’s the story?”

“You serious?”

“We just went over how serious I am.”

He hesitated. “The truth. Kurloz tried to gut me, so I shot him.”

“ _Is_ that the truth?”

“I ain’t lying,” he said, and displayed the bloody line slashed across his stomach. “And Gamzee tried to kill you, so I had to step in.” He hesitated again. “Crocker, why aren’t you going to say anything?

“Because I killed your brother. I can lie a little about how a lunatic got hurt if it means I don’t fuck up your life any more.”

Dave nodded, and they fell into silence until officers arrived on the scene.

—————

“I wanna know who sold me up shit creek without a motherfuckin’ paddle.”

“I can’t tell you that.”

Gamzee sighed noisily, the sound trailing off until he muttered, “Honk.” After a pause, he asked, “Is my bro dead?”

“He did not pull through the night,” said Jane. “I’m sorry.”

He laughed, letting his head fall back against the pillow of the police hospital bed.

“What’s so funny?”

He turned his hands in his restraints to point at her. “ _You_ , you lyin’ bitch.”

Her heart skipped; her stomach filled with ice. “Excuse me?”

He splayed his fingers, palms upward. “See? Ain’t even got it in your fat ass to lie about lyin’.”

“I’m not fat,” Jane said automatically. “And what am I supposed to be lying about?”

“Bein’ sorry. You ain’t sorry about my bro’s deadness. None of you cop shits is ever gonna be sorry about me and my bro.” He grinned, showing off sharp eyeteeth. “Unless you’re tellin’ other people you’re sorry about the games we get up to.”

“Do you confess to the murder and mutilation of Damara Megido?”

“The whore? Of motherfuckin’ course. He said she had to die.”

“Who did? Your brother?”

“Man, Kurloz couldn’t fuckin’ jabber. I thought you assholes knew facts.”

“Then who?”

“Who else? God.”

“Which god? Who’s telling you to kill?”

Gamzee considered this. “Oh yeah. You idiots don’t call him ‘god.’”

This time, it was her veins that filled up with a crushing chill. “What do we call him?”

“A demon.”


	3. awake to the sound

_She is running through the city, barefoot and with bloody toes on the asphalt. All that covers her is a thin sleeping dress that falls to her knees. She runs and she runs and she runs and she gets nowhere at all. She runs because she is scared, is fearful of a thing she knows in her heart is ever-present._

_He is already here._

_She turns a corner and finds out the truth of this statement: he towers before her. His coat is long, the trim flickering with epileptic color. His chest is broad and heaving. She doesn’t know if he’s laughing or panting, but she’s willing to err on the former. He is silent. There is no way to tell if he’s smiling, with a face like his. His is a fanged skull, the teeth on glorious display because there is the thinnest, tightest green skin stretched across the bone. Brilliant crimson dots top the protruding cheekbones. His eyes are glitching pool balls, flashing from striped to solid and reverse and inverse._

_He opens his great horrible mouth and **screams**._

_A terrible light erupts from his throat and she throws up her arms over her face and—_

Her alarm went off.

 

DAY TWENTY-SEVEN: EIGHT AM. DAYS SINCE LAST DREAM: ZERO.

 

At eight in the morning on a Saturday, Roxy had invited Jane for breakfast with herself, Rose, and Calliope at a nice little place a few blocks from Jane’s apartment. Rose was so good at eating pancakes she had earned her own chair at the restaurant. She ate with a look of concentration so intense Jane had trouble watching her without laughing.

“So how’s things?” Roxy asked.

“Not great,” Jane admitted. She glanced at Rose.

“Janey, I know the work details, you know better than that. I’m asking how you’re doing _aside_ from that.”

“Oh. Well, still not great.” She looked at Calliope. “Are there any known images of Lord English? I mean, any images from legends?”

“Not particularly. Why?” She smiled. “Do you think I should illustrate my book?”

“Maybe.” She rubbed her face.

“Jane?” Calliope said. “Are you certain you’re all right?”

“Does your shoulder hurt?” Rose asked.

“A little, sweetie. I wish it was just that keeping me awake.”

“Are you having nightmares, too?” Rose went on.

“Are _you_ still having them?”

She skewered a piece of pancake and slowly, carefully mopped it through the syrup thick on her plate. “A little. Callie’s been reading me to sleep, so it helps.”

“A storyteller, an artist, a professor…what _aren’t_ you?” Jane asked.

“She’s also a kick ass chef,” Roxy chimed in.

“Roxy, love, not in front of your daughter.”

Rose grinned. “Not in front of me, mommy!”

Roxy’s response was to lean over and kiss Rose’s head. Calliope sighed; Jane laughed.

“So,” said Calliope, “what are you your plans for the day?”

“I was going to go to the station and get a little work done.”

“On a day off?” Roxy asked, protest in her voice. “Girl, you must be kidding.”

She shook her head. “There’s something I need to figure out on a case.”

“But you caught the Makaras,” Calliope said in return. “It’s been all over the news.”

“I’m worried about their involvement in other cases, or the mere chance they're involved.” She polished off her quiche and got to her feet. “I’ll talk to you ladies sometime soon.”

“Wanna have dinner, too?” Rose offered.

Jane raised a brow at Roxy and Calliope. They smiled indulgently at the girl, Calliope reaching to stroke her hair. She said, “It’s all right with me if your mother says yes.”

“Ah, hell, why not?” Roxy said, grinning. “We can make it a girls’ night in with pizza and movies and sh—”

Calliope gave her a look.

“—tuff. Stuff. Up for it, Jane?”

“Absolutely. Should I come over at, say, seven?”

“And bring something to drink!”

Jane laughed. “All right, I’ll see you then.” She rummaged through her purse for her portion of the check and had just laid it on the table when Calliope spoke again.

“Have you finished my book?” she asked.

“Oh—yeah, I did. I’ll bring it with me.”

“Excellent. I’m curious about your thoughts.”

—————

Lucidity varied with the curse. There were individuals who frothed at the mouth, and others who got along fine aside from their propensity for extreme, gruesome violence. Vriska Serket was one of the latter, and she greeted Jane’s arrival to her prison cell the same way she greeted everything: by throwing up both middle fingers.

Still, she was borderline amiable when she propped her feet up against the wall, hung her head down over the side of the bed, and said, “‘Sup?”

“How are you?” Jane asked.

“Still maintaining ‘innocent by reason of insanity,’” she replied.

“Start dreaming again and we’ll see about calling a mistrial.”

Vriska snorted grumpily and closed her remaining eye as if to go to sleep. “Whaddya want, detective?”

“We caught Gamzee, you know.”

“So fucking what?” she demanded, brows coming low on her face. “I ain’t about to care about clown-boy.”

“I know. I came to ask you something.”

“Spit it out already, fuck!”

Jane moved closer and wrapped her hands around the cell’s bars. “What was the last thing you dreamed before you succumbed to the curse?”

Vriska opened her eye. “Why d’you wanna know?”

“I found my partner’s dream journal. I want to see if there’s a commonality to the curse…something everyone shares in their final dream.”

“Oh _reeeeeeeeally_? What did the great detective Strider last dream about?”

“A horrific monster with pool balls for eyes and a strange overcoat. Does that sound familiar at all?”

Vriska regarded her upside down for a moment longer before sitting upright. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and quietly said, “You’re lying to me.”

“What? How am I lying?”

“You didn’t find your partner’s dream journal. You’re talking about a dream you’re too scared to put in yours.” She smirked. “Ain’t that right?”

“Did you or did you not dream that?” Jane demanded.

“Did you dream that or didn’t you?” Vriska shot back.

They both went silent. Eventually, Jane sighed and rolled her eyes. She said, “This is what I get for asking a lunatic. Enjoy your lifetime membership in the prison psych ward.”

“Fine!” Vriska snapped. “That’s what I dreamed before it all went to crazy-town! Ya happy?”

“Not really,” said Jane. “You honestly dreamed that?”

“Why would I lie?” she asked with a smile.

“Because you’re a borderline pathological liar.”

“Wow, rude.”

“You _blinded_ an innocent woman. I think it’s okay to be rude to you.”

“Hey, she deserved it.”

Jane raised a brow. “How, pray tell?”

“C‘mon, you've met her! She’s a bitch! All obsessed with justice and shit! I’m lucky she wasn’t involved in my trial. Then again,” she said with a grin, “I have _aaaaaaaall_ the luck.”

“Not really,” Jane said again. “Look where you are.”

Vriska laughed. “Are you kidding? A lifetime being tended to like a rat sucks compared to making people pay for blasphemy against God, but it’s sure as hell better than me getting executed.”

“So you think it’s for God, too? Who’s your god? Is he the same as Gamzee’s?”

“How the fuck should I know? I can't see inside his skull.”

“Is your god Lord English?”

“Oh, him.” She shrugged one shoulder. “Yeah, that’s him. Big surprise.”

“Doesn’t sound like you really believe he’s God.”

Vriska pointed to her eyepatch. “The asshole told me to gouge out my eye. I’m lucky I didn’t die, but bluh bluh all the luck.”

“Why did he tell you to do that, anyway?”

Vriska shrugged again. “Search me. He’s an asshole god. Getting told to get rid of one of your eyes is kind of a wake-up call that you’re not playing for the right coach.”

“And you aren’t worried about him overhearing your ‘blasphemy’ against him?”

“What’s he gonna do, kill me?” She snorted. “He ain’t real. None of the gods are. You want a believer, you need to talk to the Makaras. Makara,” she amended, grinning again. “Your new partner killed one of them after all.”

“I think we’re done here,” said Jane. “Have a nice day, Miss Serket.”

“Sweet dreams!” replied Vriska.

Jane hesitated, but departed without looking back.

—————

Rose yawned enormously.

“Is my sweet baby all stuffed full of pizza and sleepy?” Roxy said, laughing softly.

Sitting in Calliope’s lap on the couch, eyes half-closed, Rose nodded slowly. She slumped against Calliope and snuggled up against her chest. Calliope stiffened, looking at Roxy for help. Roxy only shrugged with a smile. Unable to even sigh without jostling Rose, Calliope settled back and started to pet her hair.

Jane, cross-legged in an armchair near the couch, giggled. “Roxy, I think you have the cutest little girl in the entire city.”

“Damn right I do,” Roxy said. Sitting next to Calliope, she bent down to plant a kiss on Rose’s head. “The cutest and the sweetest little girl ever.”

“Should we put her to bed?” Calliope asked.

“She’s good right there,” was Roxy's reply.

“But I was hoping to hear Jane’s opinions on my book.”

Roxy snickered. “Babe, Rose wouldn't be scared of what’s in your book. If I wasn’t freaked out, my girl won’t be freaked out.”

“I hesitate to let a child of four read something about curse-dealing demons, even if there’s a good message about the gods in the end.”

With a sigh and a shake of her head, Roxy gave her next kiss to Roxy's cheek. “Okay, fine, no demon-book for Rose. I swear, sometimes you act like such a mom.”

“Is that bad?” Jane interjected. “Don’t you live here already?”

“Next week she moves in!” Roxy said, a great measure of triumph in her voice. “It took hella days to convince her. But I don’t know why,” she said, brow raised, “since her apartment is _tiny_.”

“It’s close to the university, love.”

Roxy's retort was to stick out her tongue.

“Anyway,” Jane said with a chuckle, “about your b—”

In her purse, her phone went off. On the side table next to the couch, so did Roxy’s. Rose woke up and immediately sniffed hard. Roxy, grimacing, pressed another kiss to her head, scooped up the phone, and hurried into the kitchen. After fishing her phone from her purse, Jane followed her and hit the answer button.

“Dave?” she said.

_“Get your ass down here. You’re wanted for questioning.”_

“Excuse me?”

“What?” Roxy said into her phone. “Fuck you, I'm off duty today.” She paused, looking at Jane. “What d’you mean ‘questioning’?”

_“Serket’s dead. You were the last person to talk to her, so they want to ask you some questions.”_

“She’s _what_?” Jane and Roxy demanded in unison.

“To hell with it,” Roxy continued. “Jane’s right here. I'll bring her with me to the site.”

“Looks like I’m on my way, Dave,” Jane said, shrugging hopelessly.

_“Good. See you in ten.”_

In unison once more, they ended their calls. Scowling, Roxy rubbed hard at her face. She said, “For fuck’s sake, this is my first real weekend in _days_. What do I tell Rose?”

“That mommy loves her and will be back soon?”

“If she cries, I'm blaming you.” She discarded her scowl for a cautious smile as they returned to the living room. “Babes?” Calliope looked up, but Rose did not. The smile fell off Roxy’s face and she kneeled down in front of the two on the couch. “Rose, sweetie, look at me.”

She refused to do so, even when Roxy touched her chin. Instead, she began to cry silently. A moment later, though, she turned toward Roxy and held out her arms. Roxy lifted her from Calliope’s lap and held her tight.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Roxy crooned. “I’m so sorry.”

“Stay home,” Rose said in a tear-wavering voice. “Don’t go.”

“You know I have to. I promise I’ll come back.”

“I hate when you go at night.”

“I hate going at night, too. But Callie’s gonna stay right here with you until I get home, okay?”

“I’ll read you whatever you like,” Calliope offered gently.

Rose nodded against her neck.

“Okay,” Roxy murmured. She smoothed Rose’s hair and kissed her temple before giving her back to Calliope. Calliope was clung to, and she, too, kissed Rose’s head.

“She’ll come home, dove,” Calliope reassured her. “Just hold on for us, okay?”

“Okay,” Rose said miserably. She remained nestled in Calliope’s arms, carried to the front door, and waved at Roxy and Jane when they left. The moment they were in the car, Roxy burst into vehement speech.

“What the fuck is wrong with cursed people?” she demanded. “Why are the deaths _always_ at night?”

“The cover?” Jane suggested.

“How’s that work for suicide?”

Jane stared as Roxy started up the car, put it in drive, and sped off down the road. “Dave didn't say anything about Vriska killing herself.”

“She’d been stuck in a cell for six months and was cursed. She ran out of things to kill, y’know?”

“She seemed perfectly fine when I visited her today,” Jane said. “In so far as someone cursed can be.”

“Now we gotta get taken away from my girls because of her crazy ass,” Roxy said with a scowl. “And I still blame you for Rose cryin’.”

“I know. That’s fine.”

Roxy snickered a moment, but they made the rest of the journey to the prison in silence. Squad cars were parked outside, littering the curbside with their lights flashing. They were waved past the yellow tape immediately once they flashed their badges, and they went through the halls to reach the secluded cell.

Vriska had hung herself just beside the door using a rope made of her bed sheets. When they arrived, the officers standing by hurried to Roxy and led her to the dangling corpse.

“Had to keep her that way until Roxy came,” said a voice beside Jane. She was too used to the voice to jump at its suddenness, and she turned to find Dave. He nodded at the body. “We need her to tell us if it was really suicide.”

“Do the cameras show anyone coming down the halls?”

“Not a soul came down after you this afternoon,” he replied. “The person who found her was the guard with her dinner.”

“They why are we suspecting it as anything but suicide?”

“Look at the wall.”

She did and scowled at what she found. Written over Vriska’s bed were the words “HA HA BITCH,” and they had been written by bloody hands.

“Still suicide, Davey,” called Roxy as the officers untied the sheets from around Vriska’s neck.

“Who would’ve left a message?” he snapped, walking into the cell.

Roxy lifted one of Vriska’s hands. Its palm was covered in dried blood; her wrist was ripped open.

“Who the fuck did _that_?” Dave demanded.

Roxy lifted a brow at him. Pulling on the latex gloves an officer gave her, she worked Vriska’s red-stained mouth open to reveal bloody teeth, chunks of flesh caught between them.

“Takes a lot to get through your own wrists like that,” Jane said in a low voice. “Aside from me, who are the suspects?”

“You’re _not_ a suspect,” Dave said.

“Then why are you acting like there’s a case to solve?”

“Because we think Gamzee’s got somethin’ to do with it.”

Jane and Roxy stared at him, brows raised.

“He’s still tied down in his hospital bed, ain’t he?” Roxy asked.

“But he’s the man who likes to paint with blood. This matches his MO, down to the words.”

“Where’s the ‘honk’?” Jane asked.

“What?” Dave and Roxy said in unison.

“Here,” said Jane, crossing the room and standing on the bed. She gestured to the bloody words. “Gamzee signs everything with the word ‘honk’ and a clown face emoticon. That’s missing here. I doubt Gamzee is involved.”

“Someone’s gotta have killed her ass,” Dave protested.

“Why?” Roxy asked.

“‘Cause death is getting off easy for a bitch like her.”

“Go home, Dave,” Jane murmured.

“ _What_?”

“Go home to Terezi and don’t you dare come back until you can keep a cool head on these cases.” When he began to protest again, she gave him a significant look. Throwing up his hands, he turned and stormed away.

Roxy whistled faintly once his footsteps had faded. “You got him whipped, girl.”

“He needs to take a break,” Jane replied. “He’s still upset about Dirk.” She stepped down from the bed. “So we’re looking at a suicide without reason.”

“Does suicide ever have a great reason?” Roxy asked.

“I’d argue no, but Vriska _really_ had no reason. She was perfectly fine when I talked to her today—I mean, she was laughing and saying she was happy to be in prison. The only thing she wasn’t happy about was—” She stopped. She looked at the writing on the wall, and then at Vriska’s missing eye.

“Oh my God,” she said weakly. “He _can_ do it. He’s _real_.”

“What?”

“Lord English. He’s real. He forced Vriska to kill herself for blasphemy against him.”

“ _What_?”

Jane opened her mouth, but stopped at the incredulous looks on the faces of the officers around her. She blushed to the tips of her ears. Only Roxy did not look at her with disbelief; fear, instead, was on her face.

“I’m going to go radio Chief Vantas about if I’m still needed here,” Jane said. “Roxy, I’ll go stay with Rose and Calliope until you get home.”

“Cool plan,” Roxy said as casually as she could. “I’ll see you all soon

This time, when Jane left, she spared a glance back for Vriska’s body, and another for the words on the wall. They set a chill through her spine.

 

DAY TWENTY-EIGHT: MIDNIGHT. DAYS SINCE LAST DREAM: ONE.

 

Jane all but threw enough money for the fare and a tip at the cabbie before charging out of the car and sprinting to the front door of Roxy’s house. She took her keyring from her purse, flipping to the spare Roxy had given her when Rose was born. Struggling a moment to fit the key in the lock with her shaking hands, she slipped inside and locked the door behind her.

Her first instinct was to shout for Calliope, but the hour was beyond Rose’s bedtime, and so she stayed quiet. Keeping herself to a slow pace, she climbed the stairs and went to Rose’s bedroom. She peeked inside and found Calliope sitting in a rocking chair, using her toes to rock the chair. Rose was curled up in her arms, fast asleep. Very gently, Jane knocked on the door.

“Oh,” Calliope said when she saw who it was. “I would’ve thought you’d go straight home.”

“You were right,” Jane said in return. “Lord English is real.”

Her mouth a flat line, Calliope stood up and put Rose to bed. Once she was tucked in neatly, Calliope gestured for Jane to follow and led her down to the kitchen. She flicked on all the lights against the dark.

“What led you to believe that beyond my book?” she asked.

“There was a message on the wall in Vriska’s cell,” Jane said, beginning to pace around the circumference of the kitchen. “She chewed open her wrists and wrote it in her blood.”

Calliope turned a fine shade of pale green, cheeks filling with the color. “And Roxy had to _examine_ her body?”

Jane waved away the squeamishness. “It’s her job, don’t worry about it.”

Calliope steadfastly remained green. “What about the…message?”

“It was exactly like the ones the Makaras leave—left. The only thing missing was Gamzee’s signature. The words were the _same_.”

Sh caught Jane by the shoulder on her next circuit. “Sit down, pigeon. You’re worrying me.”

Sighing, she did as she was told. “Sorry. I’m just—freaked out. I can’t believe he’s real.”

“Why do matching messages make you think Lord English is real?”

“It’s stupid.” She thought. “It’s really stupid.”

“What is?”

“When I went to visit her, she said he was her god, and then that he’s a lousy god. I think he drove her to kill herself for that.”

Putting a hand to her chin, Calliope looked at the floor and considered this. “He is spiteful.”

“Right?” Jane said, gesturing vehemently. “Your book said he’s spiteful and vengeful and a complete bastard on the whole! All the killings match that sort of petulant, childlike hatefulness—and making someone who didn’t believe he was an amazing god kill herself does even more!”

“That’s a lot to decide that a demon is real.”

“Look, you don’t know Vriska Serket like I knew her. She fought us tooth and nail when we came to arrest her—until I drew on her. All she wanted was to keep on living, and I strongly doubt she was suicidally depressed and just hiding it. She wouldn’t lie about feeling bad. She’d play it up for sympathy.”

Calliope said nothing, frowning darkly.

“Come _on_!” said Jane urgently. “You’re the one who wrote a whole _book_ on how powerful and evil this guy is! Why aren’t you jumping all over the blatantly obvious?”

“Because this is something that isn’t pleasant to be reminded of.” When Jane stared at her in disbelief, she went on. “This wasn’t something enjoyable to do. Theoretically, I want people to believe me—but I don’t like it when they remind me it’s true.”

“Well, I think you got exactly what you didn’t want.” She hesitated. “And I think I did, too.”

“What? How do you mean?”

Again, she hesitated, and for longer than before. “I think I saw him in my dream yesterday. Vriska said what I saw is what _she_ saw when her dreams stopped.”

“When she was cursed, you mean.”

She looked at the floor. “Yeah.”

Calliope nodded, and then suddenly embraced Jane tightly. “Do you want Roxy to know?”

“Not yet,” said Jane, and she found she was fighting back tears. “Let’s wait until I beat it.”

“She’ll be angry you old me and not her, you know.”

“I know,” Jane said once more. “But I can’t stand to make her worry about this. It’ll kill her.” She leaned back from the hug. “Please don’t tell her.”

Calliope frowned, but she promised, “I won’t.”


	4. kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep

The city’s dream clinic, Jane discovered, was run by a woman named Porrim Maryam, who brought Jane to her office for a private consultation upon her arrival.

“Another officer cursed in the line of duty, I see,” said Porrim, taking the referral slip when Jane offered it. She studied it a moment before looking at Jane. “We’ll do our best.”

Jane stared at Porrim’s lip and eyebrow piercings, and then shook herself out of her rudeness when Porrim lifted her pierced brow. “Sorry.”

“Perfectly all right. Now—the note says you dreamed the same dream as Vriska Serket before she started down the road to the curse. What dream was that?”

“I dreamed of Lord English.”

Both of her brows rose. “How do you know that?”

“Vriska said that the thing we dreamed was Lord English. I’m inclined to believe her, especially after what happened.”

“And you’re going to take her word?”

“Well, it’s not just her,” Jane said. “I’m also going off a book a professor friend of mine wrote about him.”

“A book.”

“I never said it made a lot of sense.”

“Dreams rarely do, and most of the records we have of the final dreams of the cursed cite monsters, so it may well be.”

“But let’s not talk about…well, _him_ much. I’m scared he forced Vriska to kill herself somehow, and all because she spoke badly of him.”

Porrim tipped her head in a nod. “We’re not here to debate the existence of gods or demons, after all. We’re here to get you to dream again.”

“Thank you,” Jane breathed.

“Now,” Porrim said, rising to her feet, “let’s find you a room and a reader.”

Jane, befuddled, did not stand up. “A reader?”

“Our studies show that being read to before sleeping helps to promote dreams. We’ve isolated certain stories that increase the probability of having one.”

“Like what?”

“Children’s stories.”

She stared.

“I’m entirely serious. It’s part of why I read to Kanaya religiously.”

“Kanaya? Is that your child?”

“My daughter, yes.”

Jane twitched slightly as pieces fell into place in her mind. “Kanaya Maryam? Rose’s best friend?”

Porrim smiled. “I see you’re friends with the Lalondes.”

“Absolutely! Roxy and I have been friends since we were little.”

“Then I shall endeavor to make you well for their sakes as well as your own. I’ll put you with my best reader, Aranea.”

“Thank you,” Jane said once more. She took to her feet and followed Porrim through the halls and past the doors of many rooms. It was to one specific room that Porrim led Jane, and within were blue-painted walls and what was, in Jane’s opinion, the comfiest looking bed in the world. There was also a rocking chair, and a nightstand stuffed with books.

“Go ahead and change into your pajamas while I fetch her,” said Porrim.

“You’re going to knock first, right?” Jane asked, abruptly nervous.

Chuckling, Porrim replied, “Why wouldn’t we?” And she closed the door gently behind her when she departed.

Jane changed quickly and sat down on the edge of the bed. Even sitting, it was as comfortable as it looked. She tried to focus on that softness, and on the soothing blue of the walls. Still, though she had been awake all night, she was too tense to be tired, to even think of lying down. The idea of being read children’s stories was not a little awkward besides, and she was seriously pondering getting dressed and going back home when someone knocked at the door.

“Miss Crocker, are you decent?” Porrim called.

“Yeah,” she replied, and the door opened. Porrim stood there, accompanied by a short, soft woman wearing a dress the same blue of the walls, as well as a pointed pair of red-framed glasses. She tucked strands of her short hair behind one ear as she entered the room, and extended that same hand to Jane when she drew near.

“It’s nice to meet you, Miss Crocker,” she said, shaking Jane’s hand. “My name is Aranea Serket.”

“ _Serket_?” Jane asked. “Not—”

“No, the same,” said Aranea. “She was my little sister.”

“I’m sorry about—you know.”

Aranea smiled and nodded. “I know. It’s okay. “But we’re here for _you_ , the living. Let’s get you to dream.”

With a wave, Porrim said, “I’ll leave you to it. I have to get home and read to my little one.”

“Say hello for me,” Aranea replied. Once the door was shut, she sat down in the rocking chair. “Any childhood favorites you’d like to revisit?”

Shifting anxiously, Jane asked, “Doesn’t this seem…odd?”

“Odd?” Aranea intoned. “Odd how?”

“I’m getting read a story like a four-year-old and I’m twenty-eight. That doesn’t seem weird to you?”

“What’s weird to me is that there’s a demon eating our dreams and no one seems to care.”

Her eyes widened. “You believe it, too?”

“The legends match up,” Aranea said simply. She smiled again, very gently. “But you look like you’re in desperate need of sleep, so let’s leave it for another evening.”

“Okay.” She turned to climb up and under the covers, but stopped. Going red in the face, she said, “This still feels weird.”

Aranea giggled. “Everyone feels that way their first night, dear. Go on, lie down.”

Sighing, putting her glasses on the nightstand, Jane did so. She settled first on her back, but soon rolled onto her side to watch, squinting against her nearsightedness, as Aranea ran her fingers along the spines of the books. She asked, “How did you get into a field like this?”

“I’m a teacher during the day.” Aranea replied. “Kindergarten. I like story time best. When I heard about the results of the studies on curse victims, I thought I could try being a reader at the clinic.”

“Well…I really hope it works.”

Aranea reached out and patted Jane’s hand. “We’re going to do everything we can to stop the curse in its tracks. You’re in safe hands, if I do say so myself.”

“Thank you. And…um…I like the story of the Goddess of Balloons and Helium.”

She smiled indulgently and picked out a heavy tome. Settling it in her lap, she opened it to the halfway point and cleared her throat. “The Goddess of Balloons and Helium.”

And thus was Jane read to sleep, with a steady, satin-smooth voice narrating the story of a goddess possessed of good and true friends, if a little forgetful. It brought her back to her childhood, and she was fast asleep within ten minutes.

She did not dream, though.

—————

I hear him.

 

DAY FIFTY-SEVEN: ELEVEN SEVENTEEN AM. DAYS SINCE LAST DREAM: ? ? ?

There was applause waiting for Jane when she came to the homicide department a few weeks on. Dave was at the forefront of the detectives, smirking a little. He offered his fist, and she bumped it with hers.

“Clean bill of health?” he asked.

She gently rapped her knuckles against her head. “I’m still a dreamer of golden castles and puffy clouds. Had dreams these last couple of nights.”

“Sweet,” he said, and he patted her on the back.

“Thank you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go see Gamzee.”

“What? _Why_?”

“I want to show him his god isn’t all-powerful.”

“Can’t touch my girl Jane, is that what you want to rub in his face?”

She smiled. “Exactly.”

“Cool. You want company?”

“I’m still imposing a ban on you meeting Gamzee before his trial next week.”

“Okay, okay. Sheesh, be more of a wet blanket, will you?”

She raised a brow, but continued to smile. “I can send you home without pay.”

“Bullshit.”

“I can just ask Chief Vantas really nicely and he’ll do it.”

“Fine. Smartass.” He shooed her off with little waves of his hands. “Go visit your clown buddy. I’ll be here with cake when you get back.”

“You guys got me cake?”

“What asshole _wouldn’t_ buy you cake after you beat a case of the crazies?”

She grinned. “What flavor?”

“Red velvet—only the best for our princess.”

Her grin twitched at the last word, as did her shoulders. It was over in a blink, and she said, “The best aside from my red velvet cake, you mean.”

Dave did not catch the twitch, and so he only nodded. “True. Okay, go talk to the clown, then get your ass back here for cake.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

—————

Gamzee, though greatly recovered, remained tied down in his hospital bed. He looked up when Jane was shown in by a nurse, and his languid face broke into a wide smile upon seeing her. It was only when the nurse had departed and shut the door behind her that he spoke, and he said, “Hey there, new sister. What’s motherfuckin’ shaking?”

Her eyes narrowed. “What did you call me?”

“My sister. What else would I call you?”

“ _Why_ would you call me that?”

He laughed, ending on an utterance of “honk.” He pointed into the far corner of the room opposite the door. “Who but a true sister would check out God as she entered a room where He’s at?”

Jane looked into the corner. She examined it for a long time. When she looked back to Gamzee, her face was stern, and she said, “You know there’s no one _there_ , right?”

“Quit fuckin’ with me, sis. I heard the whispers. You said you up and beat a case of Godly goodness, but ain’t no one who’s really beat Him. He’s already in you by the time you even notice Him at the edge of your oculars.” He grinned. “Bet you thought you were okay if you just dreamed again, didn’t you?”

She said nothing.

“Dd you even dream, sister? Did you get your night-dancing on under the great blue sun-star, all surrounded by gold?” He sat forward as far as he could in his restraints. “Or did you motherfuckin’ _lie_ , girly?”

“Is this contagious?”

He looked askance at her, sneering with confusion.

“The curse,” she clarified. “Can it be spread around?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I want to know if you think what I think about the curse,” said Jane. “I want to know if you think it’s contagious.”

“Are you serious?” he demanded. “It’s _God_ , and God ain’t a disease!”

“I beg to differ.” She made to leave, but stopped with a hand on the door latch. “By the way,” she said, “you were wrong.”

“‘Bout what?”

She pointed to the corner diagonally opposite to herself. “God’s over there.”

And she left.

—————

“I can _not_ believe you didn’t tell me you were fighting the curse!” Roxy said, pouting.

“Cut me some slack,” Jane said with a smile. “Would you have wanted me or Rose to know if you were fighting the curse.”

“You told Callie,” she replied.

“She’s the one who helped me figure out Lord English is a real demon. I figured she had a right to know.”

“Fine, point.”

Sitting on the floor amidst a mass of paper confetti and balloons that had slipped their mooring on streamers on the wall, Rose stopped playing with her purple plush squiddle. Before anyone could ask what was wrong, she curled up with the toy tucked beneath her head as a pillow.

“I’m tired,” she mumbled.

Calliope leaned backward to peer into the kitchen for the wall clock. “Oh, my goodness! It’s almost eleven o’clock! Love, we’ve kept her up for far too long.” She got off of the couch and scooped Rose up in her arms. “Rose, princess, it’s time for bed.”

“Okay,” was the sleep-slurred answer. As Calliope started to ferry her away, she struggled and reached for Roxy. Once she was within reach, Rose took hold of her shoulder to steady herself and kissed her on the cheek.

“‘Night, mommy,” she said, waving her small hand.

“Goodnight, baby.” Roxy sighed fondly once they were up the stairs, smiling broadly. “Hand to my heart, Calliope is the best thing to happen to me and Rosie. She gets _both_ of us to bed on time.” She turned to Jane to continue.

Jane was already out of her chair. She locked Roxy in a chokehold, pressing on the back of her head until she went limp. Gently, she laid her out on the couch.

“I’ll be back for you,” she said softly, running a hand over Roxy’s mussed hair. “You read it, after all.” Going into the kitchen with her purse, she pulled her gun from her bag and waited until she heard footsteps on the stairs. She called, “Hey, Calliope? Can you come here?”

“All right.” More footsteps padded along the floor, but paused, and then turned to running. “Roxy? _Roxy_?” Calliope sprinted into the kitchen. “Why won’t—”

She stopped when Jane aimed the gun at her.

“You’re Lord English, aren’t you?” Jane asked casually.

“You didn’t beat the curse,” Calliope said, voice shaking.

“You don’t go back from seeing God. But I know he’s really a demon— _the_ demon. And I’m going to stop him before he spreads his evil any further.”

“Jane, think about what you’re doing. I can’t be Lord English.”

“Sounds like something someone who doesn’t want to die would say.”

She held up her hands, but could not move beyond that; her legs shook too badly. “Of course it does! I don’t want to die! Please listen—I’m not Lord English!”

“Prove it.”

“ _How_?”

Jane thought a moment, then aimed at Calliope’s right leg and shot her through the thigh. Screaming, Calliope dropped to the floor. Jane looked at her with a raised brow.

“Huh,” she said. “I thought a demon wouldn’t bleed.”

“Listen!” Calliope panted, holding up one hand while putting pressure on her leg with the other. “Please, just _listen_! Yes, my last name is English, but I’m not Caliborn! I’m his _sister_!”

“What the hell is Caliborn?”

“My brother’s true name! Please—you said you read the book—it was in the last chapter—it’s the name he doesn’t want people to know!”

“Why would you not want people to know your name?”

“Because he thinks knowing a person’s true name gives you power over them! He’s convinced my cancer was caused by him knowing my name and wishing ill of me!” She stifled a scream, but called out, “Roxy, _help_!”

Jane shot the floor behind Calliope’s head. “I’m taking care of her after you. I can’t let this spread to anyone else. And once I’m done with you two, I’ll go kill Gamzee, and then I’ll kill anyone else who’s cursed. They’ll never arrest me.”

“Of bloody course they will! You were already under observation!’

“But I’m beating the curse at its own game,” Jane replied. “Everyone should think I’m a hero.” She advanced on Calliope, aiming then at her head. “But I want you to tell me why you think you’re the demon’s sister, first.”

“Jane, for God’s sake, _call an ambulance_!”

She crouched down and pressed the barrel of the gun to Calliope’s temple. “Answer me.”

As she began to shake, her words, too, trembled and stumbled. “I—I—I’ve always kn-known. Ever s-since I was little. It was like h-having another soul in my body, unt—til I was eleven. Th—then he was gone and the curse started happening.”

“So all of this happened because you couldn’t keep him in your body.”

“I c-couldn’t stop him! I n-need the help of the other gods! You and the others!”

Jane took the gun away from her head. “Me?”

“You’re the reincarnation of a god,” Calliope said, desperation in her voice. “That’s the only talent I have in this lifetime—to tell who the other reincarnations are. You and Roxy and Rose and Dirk—”

“We’re all _gods_?” Why wouldn’t you tell me right away?”

Calliope cowered as Jane pressed the gun to her head once more. “You wouldn’t have believed me! I was trying to get you to understand that the gods cycle in and out of existence every other generation or so through my book!”

“Look,” Jane said, rising to her feet but keeping the gun steadily aimed, “your little plan isn’t going to work. Even if you’re not the demon himself, you’re related to him, so you have to die. And you’ve infected Roxy and Rose with your evil, so they have to die, too.” She took aim at Calliope’s head. “You first.”

A gunshot rang out, but it was not from Jane’s gun. She stumbled back against the kitchen’s island, a red blossom spreading from over her heart. Roxy set down her pistol before running to Calliope.

“Oh, God, _babe_!” she said, and she wrenched off her sweater and pressed it firmly on the wound.

Calliope groaned with pain, but sat up and took over applying pressure. “I’ll be okay, just call an ambulance.”

“Right.” She stood and started to cross the kitchen to the phone. She shrieked when Jane suddenly reached out and caught her by the ankle. Though she pulled her leg free and made to stomp on Jane's limp hand, she was stopped by what she heard.

“Thanks,” was the whisper. “Thanks.”

Jane Crocker put down her head, closed her eyes, and breathed her last.


End file.
